


Americano

by devovitsuasartes



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Coming Out, M/M, Oliver pov, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-04 02:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13354341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devovitsuasartes/pseuds/devovitsuasartes
Summary: Elio and Oliver are reunited a few years after that summer. Can be read as a sequel toCrossroads, though not necessarily. Just one of many possibilities.If you like this fic but would prefer something a little more raunchy, check outMidnight(also from Oliver's POV).





	1. Chapter 1

I was running over, as always, and I could see the students fidgeting and looking at the clock behind my head pointedly, their eyes pleading. I hadn't covered everything in my lecture notes - hadn't even touched on da Fiesole's later work - but it wasn't the students' fault that my time management was so poor. With an internal sigh I said the magic words, "We'll close there for today," and heard an immediate chorus of coats being shrugged on and books being packed away. I busied myself with tidying away my own things, but took care to smile and nod and say goodbye to every individual who passed the lectern - no special attention to any one of them, though a few of the young women had a little extra longing in their eyes, something coy in their offerings of, "Goodbye, Professor."

Finally, the last of them had trickled out of the door and I was left alone, shuffling papers together and tapping them on the lectern to tidy them into one neat rectangle. I became aware of a figure lingering by the door, and before I could look up and ask if there was something that they needed, the figure spoke.

"Excuse me, Professor? I had a couple of questions..."

I stilled immediately. That voice. That _voice_.

He was leaning against the doorframe, elegantly slouched and smirking, happiness on every corner of his face. His hair was shorter than when I had last seen him - the curls no longer loose, but clipped and tidied away with gel. He was wearing a black suit, the top button of his shirt undone, a narrow blue tie hanging down beneath it. But otherwise... otherwise he was unchanged.

"Elio?"

I must have looked and sounded shell-shocked, because he laughed at me full-throatedly and walked forward, taking his hands out of his pockets and holding them out a little, offering an embrace, so that there could be no awkwardness or uncertainty or stilted attempt at a handshake. "Come here," he said.

I walked forward as if in a trance, still not convinced that he wasn't simply a mirage. I forced a smile onto my face, and then walked forward into his arms, not squeezing him tight but hugging him gently, carefully, briefly, breathing in the smell of his cologne (cologne! he wore cologne now!) before parting. I must have still looked stunned, because he laughed again.

"Sorry. I swear, this was a total accident. I didn't mean to blindside you. I didn't even know you worked here. I'm here for a competition and I saw your name on one of the office doors, and I asked about your lecture schedule and... well, here I am."

Was his voice deeper now, or was his tone simply older, more mature? He hadn't gained any height, hadn't broadened much. He had the kind of body that tailors dream of dressing - his shoulders barely wider than his hips, his stomach flat, his limbs lean and elegant. And he seemed more confident now - more assured of himself. God, he must be... Twenty? Twenty-one?

"Oliver," he prompted, amused. "You're staring."

I finally shook myself out of it. Part of me resented him, resented that he had known this was coming, and had had the opportunity to brace himself, to gain the upper hand. But I didn't think he was lying about the crossing of our paths being an accident.

"Sorry, you just broke my brain a little," I replied, and then laughed at my own phrasing. He grinned back warmly. I finally processed what he had just told me. "You're here for a competition?"

He nodded. "Piano. I've got this Debussy piece I've been working on for, oh god, months. From _La Mer_? I actually kind of hate it." He chuckled, and the sound stole the breath from my chest. "But it's the sort of thing that impresses judges. Very fiddly, very flouncy, _très compliqué_. I'm hoping I'll manage to place second or third."

Did he always talk this much? This fast? I remember him being more reserved, more careful with his words, but had my memory of him simply been distorted by time? "When's your performance?" I found myself asking. "I'd love to attend. Maybe lop a few fingers off the competition."

"If you could..." he said, playing along with the joke, his eyebrows raised. Then he ducked his head, smiling a little shyly. "It's tonight. 8pm. The concert hall, on campus."

"I know it. I'll be there."

There was a lull in the conversation, then. The papers were still hanging from my hand, no longer neat and tidy but splayed out from the looseness of my grip. Elio didn't fidget, didn't look concerned, didn't make any demands for me to speak. He just looked at me fondly, relaxed, like he would be happy to just stand there and look at me for hours.

"So," he said at last. "At the risk of being creepy, your schedule said that this is your last lecture of the day. Do you have time to grab a coffee? Catch up?"

"Yeah," I replied after a moment, sounding uncertain for some reason. "I don't see why... yes, of course."

I turned away to finish putting away my things, and out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw his expression change, slip, shift to something a little sad and troubled. But when I slung my bag over my shoulder and turned back to him he was still wearing that same neutral smile.

We walked down the hall together, about half a foot of distance between us, strolling quietly and casually. I wondered what other people saw as they passed us. Brothers? Old friends? A professor and a student? Probably the latter. Elio craned his neck to look up at the high ceilings and I found myself staring at the long, straight lines of muscle that stretched his throat, the bump of his Adam's apple. I noticed, in the space exposed by his carelessly undone top button, that his silver Star of David still rested in the dip of his clavicle. 

We left the building and began walking down the neat path that divided that broad, green lawn, lined with trees. I felt as though I should say something, but the words stuck in my throat. I kept glancing over, until finally Elio glanced back, and laughed, and bumped me playfully with his shoulder, startling me a little.

"Oh my _god_ , stop it," he scolded lightly.

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking at me like you're afraid I'm going to pounce on you or something. I have gained a _bit_ of self-control since I last saw you. I don't have an agenda or anything. I just want to drink coffee and talk, hear how you've been..."

"Oh god," I said, the words overlapping with the end of his sentence, and I covered my face with one hand, embarrassed, laughing at myself a little. "I'm sorry. I'm acting so weird."

"You _are_ weird. You've always been weird," he said confidently, as though we had known each other all our lives, instead of just for one summer. "Just... try to relax, weirdo."

"OK. I'll try."

"Look, can I make you a deal?" he requested, and then barrelled on before I could answer. "Could we skip the whole 'so, are you seeing anyone?' thing that's probably going to crop up at some point? I can't sit around waiting for the moment when we both have to politely ask questions about our significant others and pretend like it's not awkward as hell. You have a wife, I have a girlfriend..."

"How do you know I'm still married?" I interrupted, though I wasn't sure why I asked. Maybe to drown out the echo of his words in my head. _I have a girlfriend, I have a girlfriend, I have a girlfriend..._

"Eh. You're not the divorcing type." His cheeks pinked a little. "And, OK, maybe my dad likes to give me little updates on your life when we talk on the phone."

I smiled at the mention of Sammy - a warm, genuine smile. "How is your dad? And your mom?"

"They're good, really good. They're travelling around France right now, seeing a bunch of my mom's relatives. On tour, you know?"

We reached the cafe - my favorite spot on campus, where they would let me spread my papers all over a table and work for hours, even though I had my own office. I ordered an Americano and Elio - ever the Italian - ordered an espresso. "Not bad," he said, after taking a sip. "For American coffee, that is."

We regarded each other across the small, round table, the silence filled by the bustle and chatter around us. "You look well," Elio said at last, then grimaced. "I'm not just making small talk. I mean, you actually do look well. Healthy. Good color in the cheeks." He pinched his own pale cheek to emphasize the point.

"Were you braced for seeing me all old and decrepit?"

"Oh shut up. You're not even thirty. Though I was ready to pretend not to notice if your hairline was receding." He peered at my hairline in an exaggerated fashion. "Nope. Follicles all still functioning."

I laughed quietly, then regarded him. "And you?" I asked, my tone serious now, not wanting a flippant response. "Are you... well?"

He nodded slowly. "I am. I really am."

"And you're not..." I struggled to find the question, but he didn't interrupt or prompt me, just looked at me evenly and gave me time to figure it out. "...Angry with me?" I finished at last, lamely. "For not staying in touch, or for what... what happened..."

"You didn't mess me up," he said, using my exact phrasing from that summer, knowing instinctively what I was asking him. "I'm not going to lie. After we separated-" (after _we_ separated - not after _you_ left - god, he was so considerate, so diplomatic) "-Things were rough for a while. I think that was unavoidable. But I don't regret any of it. It's part of who I am now, and I like who I am. Mostly."

He had been a strange kid, and he had grown into a strange young man. I had taught a lot of students his age in my time, but I had never heard one of them express that simple sentiment: _I like who I am_. They all seemed to be, on some level, wracked with self-doubt or self-loathing or self-consciousness. Not Elio, though. I wasn't sure why that surprised me.

We talked for almost two hours after that, the conversation ebbing and flowing, but never running dry. He was eloquent and effusive and charming, running his fingers casually through his hair, leaning over in his chair to hold the door open for a flustered undergraduate who was struggling to carry multiple book bags along with her takeaway coffee. She smiled shyly and stammered her thanks, and he replied smoothly, " _Prego_ ," and I watched her walk past the window with pink cheeks and a secret, happy grin.

At long last he tugged up his sleeve (I noticed he still wore the same old digital watch) and said, "Ah, I should probably get going. Got to get one last rehearsal in before I go on stage."

"Of course. I should, ah, head home and get some dinner before the competition. 8pm, you said?"

"8pm."

As we said our temporary goodbyes, I was overwhelmed by a sudden urge to call him by my name, as I had done once. _Oliver, Oliver, Oliver,_ I wanted to say. _Goodbye, Oliver. I'll see you later, Oliver._ But it would be too much, too intimate, too open to misinterpretation. So instead I took his hand warmly between my own and looked into his eyes and said:

"I'll see you later, Elio. I'm looking forward to it."


	2. Chapter 2

Elio placed third, with his fussy little Debussy excerpt. It was almost startling to see him play again - to see the gentle sway of his body at the grand piano on stage, and the deftness with which his fingers danced over the keys, and the rapt concentration on his face, as though he was oblivious to the gathered audience and the judges. Yet even as tears gathered on my lower eyelids, threatening to spill, I could see what he had meant when he said that he hated the piece. He played with skill, but not with love, and something about the music rang false.

Afterwards, everyone was eager to shake his hand, and I slouched against a wall almost sulkily, waiting for my turn and irrationally offended that he had not sought me out in the crowd. At last I inched closer and he spotted me, and his face lit up with a smile.

“You came!” he exclaimed.

“I said that I would,” I replied, defensiveness bleeding into my voice

“Of course, only I didn’t see you…” He shook his head. “Never mind. What did you think?”

I considered my answer carefully before speaking, even knowing how cruel the pause was, and seeing how it made his face fall a little. “You’re even more talented than before,” I offered at last, then smiled and confessed, conspiratorially, “Though I prefer Bach.”

He gazed at me thoughtfully, digesting the mixed compliment, then finally returning my smile with one of his own - tender, a little fragile. “Me too.”

I asked him if he would like to come out for a drink, but he declined. It was a somewhat shocking, even hurtful experience. Elio had never declined to spend time with me before, even when he was feigning indifference in our early days. He explained that he had a class early the next morning, and needed to get back to his own college town.

“But here,” he exclaimed suddenly, grabbing my hand with his strong, slender fingers, and reaching into his pocket. He pulled the lid off a pen with his teeth, and held the pen lid in his teeth as he scribbled on the back of my hand, the nib scratching my skin a little. I was stunned. I had a pad of paper with me, but it never occurred to me to mention this. He finished what he was writing with a small flourish near the base of my thumb, and re-docked the pen in its lid, only then relinquishing it from between his teeth, damp with saliva.

I looked down at my hand. An address, written in a more wobbly version of his usually beautiful handwriting, the ink spreading a little and soaking into the tiny lines of my hand.

“Write to me,” he said - a command, not a request. “I’d love to hear from you. I’ve missed you.”

That final comment needled at me, for reasons that I could not pin down. It bothered me after we had said our goodbyes, and I had watched him walk away, his leather satchel slung casually over the slender shoulder that had once held up one strap of his backpack. I turned it over and over in my head on the walk home (I had always loved walking, and we’d moved close to the campus so that I would not need to drive).

My family was already in bed by the time I quietly let myself back in, though it was still quite early. My wife’s work at the newspaper meant she was an early riser by necessity. I slipped into the nursery and looked at my infant sons for several long minutes, suddenly overcome with emotion. I walked over to my eldest son’s bed and rested my hand in his soft hair, looking at the words that Elio had scribbled on my skin.

I felt a sudden urge to run out and find a tattooist - get them out of bed, if I had to - and plead with them to tattoo the words into my skin before they faded. I needed some proof that Elio had been here, some scar to remember him by. I wished that the scrape on my hip had not healed so well.

And finally, then, with my hand upon my son’s head, it dawned on me that what bothered me so much was the ease with which Elio had said _I've missed you_  - as though nothing was at stake. As though he was not afraid of giving too much of himself away because, in truth, there was not very much that he  _could_ give away. He had been so open and casually affectionate, but had declined a drink because he needed an early night - because there was some lecture that he could not possibly be groggy for, not for some reason so petty as a reunion with an old lover after four years apart.

I was like a child who had run away from home, then returned to find that the locks had been changed. I had made my own life. And he had made his.

My wife woke up when I climbed into bed beside her, making that soft murmuring sound that I knew so well. “How was it?” she asked.

I considered lying to her, dashing off some comment about how wonderful the performance had been. But I did not make a habit of lying to my wife. “Strange,” I admitted. “He’s so grown up.”

She huffed a laugh, and touched my hand. “It happens to the best of us.”


	3. Chapter 3

I did write to him. Not at first - not while I was still raw from seeing him again. But a couple of months later I was flipping through my Rolodex, trying to find the phone number of one of my Princeton contacts, and I passed by the card where I had carefully written down Elio's name and address, and paused. My query to the Princeton professor temporarily forgotten, I took out a sheet of paper and my favorite Parker writing pen, and began writing - slowly, carefully, weighing every word. The letter that I wrote was full of sincerity and warmth, but not intimacy. No one reading it could have guessed that it was a letter to a man who had once been my lover.

His return missive arrived a couple of weeks later - written on lined paper in Biro. He was delighted to have heard from me, he said, and he hoped that my family was well. He told me about his upcoming final year of college, and his plans beyond that. He was already trying to make contacts in New York, hoping to find work playing music for off-Broadway shows, joking that he would probably end up playing smooth jazz piano for six dollars an hour in sleazy bars instead. He included his phone number at the end of the letter, and I added it to my Rolodex, but didn't call him. I could imagine what it would be like - hearing his voice right by my ear, as though he were right beside me, and feeling my lips brush the other end of the phone. It would be too much.

I did not think about him all the time - certainly not every day, not even every week. I could go months without thinking about him at all. I was not faking my contentedness - my love for my wife, for my sons, for the life that we had built. I knew the stereotypes about men like me "living a lie," but that was not my life. My life was good, and so - from what I could gather in the scribbled pages of his letters - was Elio's.

He never mentioned girlfriends or boyfriends, but wrote about his music like it was the great love of his life. A couple of years after he visited my college, he sent me a cassette tape with _Side A_ and _Side B_  carefully printed on the labels - no further description. I slipped it tentatively into the record player in the den and pressed Play. Side A was a selection of piano pieces, some of which I recognized, others which I did not. I wondered if he had written them himself. The first song on the tape was the Bach that he had played me all those years ago - first on the guitar, then on the piano. The music washed over me and I closed my eyes, bathing in it.

My wife wandered in from the garden, drawn by the music. "That's lovely," she said softly, leaning against the doorframe. "Is it Bach?" She loved music, and had a knack for recognizing the great composers by ear, even if she didn't know the specific piece.

I nodded slowly, still soaking the music in. "It's Elio playing. He sent a tape."

"You were right. He's very talented."

"Yes."

"We should get a piano. Get a tutor for the boys, when they're old enough."

I liked the idea of it - of my sons sitting at the piano, the sound of their music filling the house. "We should," I echoed.

I listened to Side B later, on the long drive to a conference where I was scheduled to give a lecture. This side was acoustic guitar. The first song was another classical piece, but then I heard the strains of something familiar, and then I felt a lurch inside my chest as the sound of Elio's voice came in. It was a James Taylor song - gentle plucking of the guitar accompanied by the soft tenor of Elio singing to me, asking me, _Can't you see the sunshine, can't you just feel the moonshine?_

I had padded my journey time considerably, so I found a place to pull over and turned off the engine, leaning back in my car seat. Elio sang to me, his voice strong and even, not as dazzling as his piano skills, but perfectly serviceable for his selection of songs: classic rock and country, a couple of acoustic takes on more recent pop hits. Fleetwood Mac, The Smiths, America, The Cure, The Doors. I started driving again after a while, and started singing along to the songs that I knew, turning up the volume and rolling down my window, a grin spreading across my face as Elio and I sang together. I probably sounded terrible, but I didn't care.

When I gave my lecture, later that day, my voice was slightly hoarse.

I would play Side A in the car on family trips, watching my boys drop off to sleep in the back seat, soothed by the soft strains of the piano music, seeing my wife smile peacefully in the seat next to me. But Side B - oh, Side B - that was just mine. I didn't feel guilty about keeping it a secret, about only playing it when I drove alone; it felt right. This felt like something that Elio had made just for me, a precious gift, far too personal to share. I went on long drives with Elio, singing with him, picturing him sitting in a quiet room with a microphone and a recorder, making a tape full of songs he thought I'd like.

I saw him again about a year after he made me the tape, when he was twenty-five and I was thirty-one, just shy of thirty-two. I was passing through his parents' American home town and called them up to ask if they'd like to have dinner. They, of course, insisted on having me over for dinner at their own house. "Elio is here," Sammy said, in that cheerful voice he used when he was pretending that something which carried so much weight was actually something casual. "He'd love to see you," Annella added. They still shared the phone when we talked.

He was as handsome as ever, reclining on the couch in faded blue jeans and bare feet when I arrived, his hair a little longer than when I'd last seen him, the curls untamed. Sammy scolded him - "Elio! Get upstairs and get changed for dinner!" - but he just rolled his eyes and replied, " _Oy_ , Papa, at least let me say hello!"

I stood awkwardly in the foyer, the bottle of my wine that I had brought held in one hand, until Annella kindly relieved me of it, murmuring her thanks. I had listened to his tape on the journey over here, and suddenly felt absurdly guilty about it - as though I had been masturbating to a picture of him instead. I hadn't prepared myself for how handsome he would be, and how unguarded in his casual clothes, and how tightly he would embrace me as he exclaimed, "Oliver!"

"Elio," I returned, gripping his shoulder and back, breathing in the smell of him. He wasn't wearing cologne this time, but I caught the floral scent of detergent and the powdery dryness of his deodorant.

Then he held me at arm's length, peered at me critically, then patted the top of my head. "Still got all your hair!" he observed.

"Touch wood," I replied, knocking on the nearby doorframe.

We beamed at each other, my brief discomfort already forgotten, and then Sammy swatted Elio with a tea towel and ordered him upstairs to get changed. I said that I didn't mind, but Sammy hushed me. "He's too wild," he sighed, in mock-despair. "I'm doing what I can to try and civilize him."

"It may be a lost cause."

"Alas, I think you're right."

They didn't have servants in their American home - Mafalda and Anchise had, much like the villa, been inherited rather than hired by Annella herself. Sammy and Annella both cooked, and dinner was a cosy affair, full of laughter. I was sat across the table from Elio - now dressed in an eye-watering paisley shirt and dark dress pants (though still with bare feet) - and every now and then he would catch my eye and grin conspiratorially. For a while it felt as though I might be a boyfriend that Elio had brought home, or even a son-in-law, until Sammy inquired after my own family and I remembered that I was not a part of this one. Not really.

Elio played for us after dinner, at the old upright piano in the corner of the den. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sammy brush a tear from his own. As I listened to the music and watched Elio move his whole upper body with the swelling and ebbing of the notes, I felt something settle in my chest - a mixture of affection, and sadness, and longing.

Later, when Annella and Sammy were cleaning up the dinner plates (Sammy washed, Annella dried), I found Elio smoking on the back porch. He was outlined by the porch light, gazing out at the garden, his expression thoughtful. He turned his head as I stepped outside, and lifted his chin in a subtle greeting.

"Wow," I said, looking at the moonlit garden, with its trees and flower beds and little paths, and a small pond with a fountain. "This is beautiful."

Elio leaned back against the porch rail on his elbows, breathing out a cloud of smoke, craning his neck to look behind him. "I love it out here."

There was a lull after that. I realized that this was the first time we'd been alone - truly alone - since we'd checked out of our hotel in Bergamo on that last morning. There was no one watching now, no social conventions to uphold.

"Thank you for the tape," I said quietly, sincerely. "It's beautiful. I listen to it all the time."

He smiled, just a little, not looking directly at me. "I'm glad," he said. "I'll make you another, if you'd like that."

"I'd love that."

Another silence followed. A thought occurred to me, and a mischievous grin crept onto my face. "So," I said, faux-casually. "Are you seeing anyone?"

Elio laughed loudly and covered his face, pushing himself off the railing and shoving me in the chest. "Oh fuck you!" he exclaimed.

"I'm sorry," I said, laughing too, rubbing my chest where he had shoved me. "I couldn't help myself."

" _Connard_ ," he muttered under his breath, still chuckling. He leaned back against the railing. "Ah, Oliver," he sighed - half amused, half exasperated. I noticed that he had not answered the question.

Suddenly - staring at the long line of his throat as he tilted his head back, and the soft darkness of his hair, and the fullness of his lips - I was overcome with an urge to grab him and kiss him, so immediate and fierce that it shocked me a little. I could imagine it so clearly: the way he would startle in surprise, then melt into my embrace, opening his mouth and clutching at my clothes, pulling me closer. I was frightened by the intensity of it. It had been a long time since I had so desperately desired someone other than my wife. Elio glanced over, and whatever he saw on my face turned his expression serious, uncertain.

"Oliver," he said again, quietly. A statement. A question.

I pulled in a deep breath and then released it in a rush. "Elio," I returned.

He pulled his lower lip into his mouth, suddenly nervous, shy. He ducked his head, took the last drag of his cigarette, and with his eyes downcast he murmured, so quietly I barely heard it, " _Elio._ "

Hearing him call me by his name again hit me hard in the chest, like a physical blow. I was hit with a wave of immense misery as I closed my eyes like a coward, shook my head, and said, desperately, "I _can't_."

He didn't respond right away, and with my eyes closed I couldn't see his face. I wanted to give him privacy. Finally I heard him say, in the softest, saddest voice I had ever heard, "I know."

I opened my eyes. He was looking down at the painted white boards of the porch. He looked so melancholy that I wanted to reach out and bring him into my arms and hug him like I hugged my sons when they fell down and scraped their knees. But I didn't dare touch him. I feared that it would do more harm than good.

We went back inside, Elio more subdued than he had been for the rest of the evening, and I thanked Annella and Sammy and told them that I should be going. They were effusive in their goodbyes, Annella kissing both of my cheeks. Elio hung back, standing on the stairs so that he could see over their heads. I looked up at him, just before I left, and he clenched his jaw and then smiled bravely, nodding at me. I nodded back, trying to convey with the nod everything that I couldn't bring myself to say with words.

A few months later, he sent me another tape. I pressed it briefly to my mouth, closing my eyes. Then I slid it into the tape deck, and pressed Play.


	4. Chapter 4

On the day that my eldest boy started school, I drove him right up to the gates, and then spent slightly too long making sure his coat was on and his little backpack with his packed lunch and notebooks and pencil case was properly zipped up. He was just tall enough now that he could reach up and hold my hand without my needing to stoop, and I walked him all the way to the steps, then got down on one knee to hug him goodbye. He was excited, impatient to get inside, and reluctantly I let him go and watched him carefully walk up the steps, holding on to the railing tightly, and then trotting inside with the flood of other young pupils.

I got back in the car, drove around the corner to a quiet side street, and wept silently with my head resting on my hands, which were resting on the steering wheel. My wife, much to her dismay, had been called into work early, and I felt more alone than I had in years. I knew that in another year my youngest son would be going through this same ritual, and that one day they would both head off to college. I was not ready for this, and I knew I would not be ready for that.

We bought a piano, and hired a tutor. The boys would take turns to sit, stacked up on cushions, at the keys and plink away carefully at the simple notes. My youngest would get over-excited and bash the keys with the fingers of both hands splayed, grinning at the cacophony, until the tutor - a stern French woman with grey hair in a tight bun - scolded him. My eldest, however, took it a little more seriously, and by the age of eight he could play a handful of basic songs.

"You're my little musical genius," I told him one day, my cheeks hurting from smiling after hearing him play and sing _Frère Jacques_.

He beamed. "I want to be as good as Elio," he announced.

The smile froze on my cheeks. It was like a punch directly to my sternum, to hear his name from my own son's mouth. "Elio?" I echoed, unsteadily.

"Yes, I want to learn the songs on the Elio tape."

The Elio tape. Of course. He must have overheard conversations between my wife and I in the car, when the songs on the radio got too noisy or grating, and my wife would pick through the little stack of cassettes and make suggestions and say, _We could play Elio's tape_ , and I would say, _Yes, why not?_

I wondered if he knew who Elio was - whether he knew that Elio was a person that I knew, or whether he thought of him like Joni Mitchell and Johnny Cash and the other musicians whose tapes were in the stack.

Of course, there was not just one Elio tape. In my briefcase I kept a precious collection of three tapes that he had sent after the first. He had grown more confident in his singing voice, and invested in better recording equipment, so that each new tape was more polished than the last. Before some of the tracks he would speak for a moment, introducing them. _This one is so cheesy but I can't get it out of my head, so I'm passing the curse on to you_ , he joked, before launching into an acoustic cover of George Michael's latest hit. _I need to smoke about a billion more cigarettes before I can actually sing this properly_ , was his humble preface for a Tom Waits song. And, at the very end of Side B of the most recent tape, a wry comment of, _I know you know this one_ , and then he launched into a rendition of "Love My Way" that left me breathless.

A small part of me felt guilty for not shutting this down - for writing him a thank-you note after every tape, and telling him that I looked forward to hearing the next one. Deep down, I understood that these were not just mix tapes from an old friend; these were love letters in the language that Elio spoke most fluently. There were no hidden messages in the lyrics of his chosen songs that I could discern (he would not be so crude), but I could hear it in the way that he played and sang. It was the antithesis of how he had played the Debussy piece in my university's concert hall; this was music that he loved, performed for an audience of one.

Beyond the tapes and my thank-you letters, we had next to no contact. I had not seen him since that dinner at his parents' place, though my occasional conversations with Sammy kept me appraised of the movements of Elio's career. By the time he was twenty-eight, the rest of the world was sitting up and paying attention to his talent. He was by no means a pop star or a celebrity, but his performances drew crowds of hundreds and sold out smaller concert halls. One day I received a large brown envelope with a wry, proud note from Annella, and within it was a copy of a magazine in which Elio had been profiled. He had been photographed in his own home - all bare wooden floorboards and beautiful paintings - sat on a worn velvet couch and staring intensely into the camera in one photo, and languishing at his grand piano in another. The article made no mention of a significant other, though it did comment - in a breathless, scandalized little aside, " _Perlman - who is Jewish and openly bisexual..._ "

I showed the magazine to my wife as soon as she got home. The tapes were one thing, but to hide something like this... it would be like keeping a secret stash of pornography. 

"Look, Elio Perlman made it into a magazine," I told her, letting the pride bleed into my voice.

"Oh my!" she exclaimed, once she saw the pictures. "You didn't tell me he was so handsome."

And he was. God knows he had already been lovely in his youth, but he had only grown more breathtaking with maturity. That evening a few couples that we were friends with came over for dinner, and my wife passed the magazine around the table. "Oliver knows him," she said, as proud as if it had been me profiled in the magazine. "He stayed with his family when he was writing his doctoral thesis."

I ducked my head modestly and smiled, and murmured some praise of Elio's accomplishments, but I felt something uneasy settle in my stomach. I had never told my wife - nor, indeed, anyone - the exact nature of the six weeks I had spent with Elio, and how it had evolved. That, and my sexuality, were the very last secrets that I still held. My sexuality had never been an issue after I was married, so I had told myself that I never needed to bring it up, but Elio... he was a part of my life now, of my family's life. My sons spoke his name. My wife admired his good looks and loved his music. And I, well, I knew the taste of his semen and had kissed the hinge of his jaw, and I could no longer justify keeping those things a secret.

I did not make a habit of lying to my wife. And this felt like lying.

After our friends had gone, and the boys were in bed, my wife and I were clearing up in the kitchen. I could feel the confession swelling up in my chest, bursting to be free, until I could not bear it any more. My voice shook as I asked my wife to stop for a moment, and sit with me at the kitchen table.

"There's something I need to tell you," I said.

Her expression froze a little, bracing for the worst - news that I had been diagnosed with cancer, perhaps, or that I had cheated on her. "Alright."

I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to decide which secret to reveal first. "I'm... well, first of all. I'm bisexual. Obviously it doesn't really matter any more, but I am."

With great trepidation, I watched her absorb this information. She simply nodded, slowly, then prompted: "And second of all?"

Second of all, well... "Elio Perlman was more than just a family friend. I..."

But suddenly, it seemed impossible to say, and so I filled the impossible space with defensiveness and reassurance. "It was only a couple of weeks, I swear, it ended when I left Italy, and never again since, I've barely seen him, in fact..."

"Oliver," my wife interrupted kindly. "I guessed."

I stared at her, somewhat dumbfounded. She looked a little pained, but chuckled at my expression.

"We've been married for ten years, darling. You're not as impenetrable as you like to think. You always talk about him so carefully. That's what gave you away."

It should have been like a weight lifted off my shoulders, but instead my panic only intensified. I had been braced for outrage and questions, not quiet acceptance. I felt sure that she could not possibly have understood - that there must be some other detail I had forgotten to mention, which would cause her calmness to dissipate and fill the kitchen with yelling and accusations.

"He's sent me tapes," I blurted out. "Other than the first one. Just music, sometimes he talks, but it's nothing..."

"Yes, I've seen the tapes in your office. I thought they might be from him. I recognized the handwriting on the labels." I must have looked shell-shocked, because she patted me comfortingly on the shoulder and got up to pour us each a glass of wine.

"You've known, all this time," I stated as she sat back down. "And you never said anything?"

"We may be married, Oliver, but you're entitled to your past, and your secrets. I have a few of my own. I'm glad that you told me, but you didn't have to. You say you've never been unfaithful to me, and I believe you. I love you, Oliver."

Her last words, though I had heard them so many times before, caused me to suddenly break down. I leaned against her, pressed my face against her neck and breathed in the familiar smell of her perfume. "I love you, too," I whispered. "I... I..."

"It's alright, darling." She embraced me, kissed the top of my head. "It's alright."

We finished washing and drying the dishes, then went upstairs and made love. I tried to convey with my entire body my gratitude to her, my renewed remembrance of why I had loved her in the first place, of why I had married her, even with the heartache and grief of my parting with Elio still weighing heavily on my soul. 

The next morning I put the magazine in the bottom drawer of my desk, along with Elio's tapes, and I did not think about him again at all for quite a long time.


	5. Chapter 5

I had not heard from Elio for over a year when out of the blue I received a letter from him, politely inquiring after my life and my family, and asking if I could send him my phone number and let him know a convenient time to call. I was a little taken aback by the request, but nonetheless I wrote back promptly and told him to call at the weekend, around lunchtime, when my wife had been planning to take the boys to see their grandmother. I did not have a lock on my office door (I didn't want to be _that_ kind of father), and my children were of an age where they loved to rush in and interrupt my work so that they could show me something, or beg for my help with their homework.

I spent the next few days building up a reservoir of anxiety about the phone call. Elio must have some kind of news that he did not want to break in a letter, and I did not know if it was good news or bad news. I knew - because every news channel and radio station and paper reminded me almost daily - that for men like Elio, men who slept with other men, there was a particular and terrible kind of bad news growing more widespread by the day. By the time the day of his phone call came around, I was sick to my stomach with worry, and waiting for the phone to ring with both impatience and dread.

He called at around two o'clock. I was already at my desk, waiting, but I let the phone ring a couple of times before taking a deep breath, picking it up, and greeting him warmly.

"Oliver," he said, by way of hello. He sounded a little tense, but not sad or distraught, and my worry eased a little. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, just fine. The boys are with their grandmother, so I have the house to myself. I can finally catch up on work." Then, instead of asking him _how are you_ in return, I asked, "You OK?"

There was a smile in his voice as he said, "Me OK." A pause, then, "I'm actually calling because I have some news."

"I figured." I braced myself. "What's up?"

"I'm getting married."

A full three seconds must have passed before I recovered from my shock enough to say, "Congratulations." Did I sound sarcastic? Why did I sound sarcastic? "I mean it, that's... that's great." No, that was no better. "Who's the lucky girl?"

Elio chuckled and replied, "Well, actually... do you remember Marzia?"

"Of course." Of course, Marzia. I had actually seen her again, just a few years ago, when I brought my wife and the boys to visit the Perlmans at their villa. My wife and I had slept in Elio's old room, and the boys in the guest bedroom next door. It had been strange to see them there - to see my children swimming in the same lake that I had once swum in with Elio, and walk around the Battle of Piave monument with my wife. "I didn't know you two were back together," I said, trying to make the comment sound neutral.

"I did tell you never to ask me about my love life," Elio responded wryly. There was a soft and careful tone to his voice, like he thought that perhaps I was not entirely happy about the news, and I was irrationally irritated by it. "But yes, she moved here a few months ago and we just sort of... picked up where we left off."

"That's great. I'm sure you two will be happy together." Why didn't I sound sincere? I _was_ sincere. I had, for a while, been worried that Elio was pining over me - putting his life on hold, in some vain hope that one day we would be together again. That he was getting married was wonderful news.

"I hope so. I hope she'll put up with me."

He had made no mention of a date for the wedding. Was he calling to invite me? Really, if he wanted me to be there then he should let me know the date. It was only polite, to let me make room in my calendar. Between my family and my career, I had a lot of commitments.

But instead of offering more details, Elio simply asked, gently, "Are you OK?"

Again, I found myself annoyed by the implication of the question. "Of course," I replied, sounding almost theatrically baffled. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, when you told me that you were getting married, I cried for about a week," Elio confessed, blending frank honesty and dry self-deprecation. "Even though... well, it didn't make much sense. And that made it even worse, because I was so annoyed at myself for being such a baby about it. But when I told my father about all this, about how stupid it was, about how I had no right to be upset, he told me..." He adopted a perfect imitation of Sammy's careful enunciation. "'Elio, being upset is a condition, not a right.'"

It was a lovely, tender anecdote - Elio offering me a piece of his own vulnerability, to do with what I liked. It was kind and brave, and I hated it, because it felt like pity. "I'm not upset," I replied, my teeth clicking closed on the final syllable a little too sharply.

"Of course," he said, in a way that implied he was just humoring me. "I'm just saying, there wouldn't be anything wrong with it if you were."

"I'm not," I repeated, then followed it up with perhaps the ugliest thing I had ever said to him, even though I tried to cushion it with a laugh: "Don't flatter yourself."

Don't flatter yourself! How on earth had we gotten here, from him calling me up to break the wonderful news that he was getting married? Whose fault was this - mine or his? The ugly, bitter beast that seemed to have crawled up from my bile duct and taken control of my mouth was convinced that it was Elio's, but the smarter part of me knew better.

There was a long silence after I said _don't flatter yourself_ , during which I was given no clue as to what was happening on the other end of the phone - what Elio's face looked like, what he was thinking. When he finally spoke it was in a cool, carefully controlled tone that belied a deep hurt.

"Anyway, I just wanted to let you know. We're still in the early days of planning, but I'll send you an invitation once I know the date."

"Thank you."

We ended the call there, after a pair of curt goodbyes. Afterwards I sat at my desk, just staring at the phone, confused by the turmoil of emotions within me. There was resentment of Elio, for no logical reason that I could muster, but mostly I was just angry at myself - for being cruel, for being childish, for handling that particular phone call with less composure at thirty-six than Elio had managed when he was eighteen. It made no sense for me to be anything other than delighted by the news that he was getting married. I was married myself - happily married - and I had two wonderful sons, and Elio and I had not been together for well over a decade.

But of course, I knew why I was - yes, Elio, you bastard - _upset_. It was for the same reason I had been upset when he declined to go out for a drink with me after his competition all those years ago. Starting with the day I got on that train, I had been slamming doors in Elio's face for years, and now he had closed a door in mine. He had moved on, and it was wonderful news, and I hated it.

It took me several days to calm down enough to write him a letter of apology. I held nothing back. I admitted to everything he had accused me of - of being upset, and of being angry at myself for being upset. We had been kept apart by circumstance, by practicality, and ultimately by choice, and we were now too far apart to claw our way back to one another without leaving a path of destruction and pain in our wake. I wished him, quite sincerely, every happiness with Marzia, and I told him that I did not think I should come to the wedding. I begged him not to hate me, not to drift away. I asked him, only if he would not mind and if he had the time, if he might send me another tape one day.

He did not send me another tape. Two long weeks after my messy, embarrassing missive, I received a small parcel with two items enclosed: a CD, and a note. The note read:

> It's 1995, grandpa. No one listens to tapes any more.

Shortly afterwards my eldest son came running into my office, demanding to know why I was laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> That's all, folks! Thanks for reading and for your lovely comments.


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